


Runaway

by FlowerCrownOfPoppy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerCrownOfPoppy/pseuds/FlowerCrownOfPoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief fic on Dorian's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Writing more than one fic for the same fandom? I think I have a problem.

Dorian is ten years old when his mother stands at his doorway. The amulet on her neck glitters the same way stars do. He is old enough to know that she does not love his father, never did, but the hands that tuck him in are gentle and warm.

"Good night, my little genius."

"Good night, mother."

* * *

Dorian is fourteen when he notices one of the older boys, Elian, his blonde curls bobbing whenever he turns his head. Elian is quiet and smiles often and makes Dorian feel as if he could float out of the room, into the clouds and beyond.

"Dorian, are you alright? You look a little flushed."

He lies, says he’s feeling just fine. When night falls he stares at his ceiling and thinks about blonde hair until his thoughts slip away into comfortable darkness.

* * *

Dorian is sixteen years old when he has his first kiss, stolen in the damp darkness of the pantry. They are inexperienced, nervous hands wandering and mouths barely making contact. His name is Trystan and his hair is dark and his eyes are the most beautiful shade of green Dorian has ever seen in his life.

They kiss again and again and again. It feels more natural than the incantations he shouts to conjure fire and ice, more powerful than the magic that flows through his veins. Dorian is certain that no position of power, no thaumaturgy in the world could ever compare to _this_.

* * *

 

Dorian is nineteen years old when he looks his father in the eyes and sees desperation, exhaustion. He is outraged at his defiance. Dorian is a child and he is even more tired than his father, tired of the game and the suitors that he won’t, _can’t_ ever love.

"No."

He is a Pavus, proud and unafraid, least of all by himself. His father had taught him that. If only he’d remember it now.

* * *

Dorian is twenty years old when he sees dark blood slick on the cobblestone, the servant girl’s breath coming in shorts gasps. The blade isn’t deep enough to kill her, not yet, but the terror in her eyes is branded onto Dorian’s for the rest of his life. His father, stone faced and stiff-backed, loses his composure immediately.

"Dorian —"

And Dorian can’t pretend that the rumors from the slaves aren’t true anymore. His feet hardly make a sound as he turns tail and races back up the stairs, his father’s shouting echoing off of the walls. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

Dorian is twenty going on twenty one when he finds a quiet alleyway in some shitty town and feels his face twist into the ugliest grimace he’s ever made in his life, body wracked with violent sobs. He cries because in Tevinter he is Dorian Pavus, prodigal son and greatest disappointment; and here, in the middle of nowhere, he is nothing.

Freedom is dizzying. Freedom is the shards of his broken heart poking him in the ribs while his stomach clenches with hunger. When the shuddering stops he pushes himself to his numb feet and feels his mother’s amulet settle against his throat.

The tears he scrubs from his eyes will be the last he makes for years.


End file.
